


Quagmire

by Aenaria



Series: a life at the museum [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Gen, howard stark is a troublemaker, somewhat based on actual historical photographs, steve's not an exhibitionist he swears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-28 00:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14437869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aenaria/pseuds/Aenaria
Summary: The war was recorded with newsreels, articles, memoirs, interviews, and, especially photographs.  Some of these photographs could be amusing, others unexpectedly sensual.One of those sensual pictures features Captain America, even if the public hasn’t realized it.This is the story of how that picture came to be.  And, naturally, it’s all Howard Stark’s fault.(Inspired by an actual, historical photograph that, if you've spent any time in the MCU corner of Tumblr, you've definitely seen by now...)





	Quagmire

**Author's Note:**

> So, this post started going around with darcy-lewis-blogs on tumblr making the apt comparison between one of Steve’s poses in the Infinity War trailers with the famous photo of the Naked Gunner from WW2 (you can find the post here, complete with visuals). At that point the fic inspiration started calling, and this little piece of visual crack was born.
> 
> Yes, I realize that I’m probably taking liberties with the internal structure of a WW2 transport plane but shhh, it’s fine. Blame Howard for inventing a bigger on the inside plane with good cloaking devices. Suspend your disbelief and just soak in the visuals.
> 
> Thanks to CatrinaSL for her awesome beta skills. <3

It’s nowhere near the worst situation Steve’s ever found himself in.  It does, however, drive home the fact that he is well and truly a city kid whose experiences with swamps and bogs go only as far as some of the low lying, marshy areas around Coney Island and Rockaway.  Those gentle places are a far cry from the stinking, sloshing quagmire that Steve’s currently wading through. He supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised that a mission gone FUBAR in this spectacular a fashion, even if they had managed to salvage things, would lead to him wading chest deep in a bog for the past eight hours to avoid Hydra’s foot soldiers.

It wouldn’t be entirely terrible, except that  _ smell _ …

Well, at least it’s keeping the soldiers away.

That singular twinkling light in the sky that’s coming closer and closer brings a certain sense of relief - it’s flashing in a specific pattern that tells Steve it’s his SSR transport plane, hopefully with a clean uniform and a jug of water for him to freshen up.  The plane’s oddly quiet as it nears him, one of Stark’s tricks, he supposes, but he’s not going to take it for granted. 

Through the gloom and the kicking winds, a chain link ladder drops out of the sky, close enough to his head that all Steve has to do is stretch up and grab it.  The slimy water and plant life debris clings to his uniform as the plane begins to ascend, like it wants to suck him back into the bog and become one with it. But the swamp’s got nothing on the plane, and the ladder begins to winch back up towards the craft as they fly along.  Steve tries to climb up a few rungs, to get inside even more quickly, but his sodden gloves slip on the metal, so he just holds on. 

Not long after that he’s at the opened hatch of the plane, and there are hands grabbing at his shoulders to help him scramble inside.  Steve collapses on the floor of the plane with a gasp and a wet splat just as he hears the hatch slam shut behind him. The next thing that he hears, loud and clear even over the engine noise, is a disgusted groan from Bucky.  

“What the hell did you swim in?”

“Swamp water,” Steve says, rolling on to his back so he can look up at Bucky, who’s got a hand clamped over his mouth, and Dum-dum Dugan, whose mustache is twitching hard as he clearly tries not to breathe through his nose.  “Eight hours in swamp water.” He can feel the water seeping from the neck of his uniform and out from under his helmet, leaving a gross puddle beneath him. “Please tell me there are some clean clothes here?” Then, “Did Morita get Stark what he needed?”

“Yes, he did,” Howard called back from somewhere.  “The film’s already being processed, so your time playing swamp creature wasn’t wasted.”  His footsteps get closer, but Steve can see them stop a distance away. “Dear God, please tell me that smell’s not coming from you.”

Steve just groans and bangs his head against the floor, eyes slipping shut.  

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Dugan murmurs.

Bucky muffles a snicker, even though he’s not all that successful at it.  “The great Captain America, brought down to this. A heaving, stinking, swamp creature.”

“Go fuck yourself, Buck,” Steve spits out.

“All right, gentlemen,” Agent Carter’s voice cuts in, and now Steve really just wants to sink into the floor because the last thing he wants is for Peggy to see him in such a sorry state.  

_ This situation just might be worse than boot camp, _ he thinks.  

“The lot of you, clear off so that Captain Rogers can strip down.”  She tosses a canvas bag onto the ground near Steve’s torso. “That bag should be watertight, you can put your uniform in there until we get back to base to wash it.”

“Or burn it,” Dugan chimes in.

“We can send it to Hitler, maybe that’ll clear him out of his bunker,” Howard jokes.  “If we could weaponize that smell it could be one hell of a powerful tool.” 

Steve turns his glare towards an unrepentantly grinning Stark, and jabs a finger at him.  “Fuck you, too.”

“Not when you smell like that.”

Peggy all but growls, and shouts, “Enough, you children!”  It’s enough to make even the bravest of them feel contrite, and they subside.  “You three, clear off. Barnes, find a blanket, canteen, and a rag so he can clean at least some of the muck off of him.  I’ll see if I can find something clean to wear.”

The group scatters and, finally, Steve’s all alone with just the sound of the engines in his ears and swamp water leaking from his boots.  He takes another minute just to lay there and collect himself. It wasn’t his hardest mission, not by far, but he still feels like he’s been hit by a truck.  The serum’s been a godsend in his life, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t get exhausted after extreme feats.

Steve sighs deeply, then rolls to his feet to begin stripping out of his uniform, which is starting to get uncomfortably sticky as it dries.  He shucks his gloves first, then works on the laces to his boots, the knots swollen and full of grime. Then he starts on the buckles on his top, the chest pieces falling to the ground as his cold fingers manage to get everything unlatched.  It takes longer than it should, Steve realizes, and another wave of exhaustion rolls through him. But he’s not falling asleep while he smells like bog, that’s for sure. Next go the pants and the socks, shoved hastily into the waxed canvas bag Peggy had dropped off.  

He has a moment of internal debate as to whether he should get rid of his undergarments, but when he shifts to lean against the wall, the fabric tugs and sticks to his skin, making him wince.   _ Oh, what the hell _ , Steve thinks, shucking them off as well.  Hopefully Bucky won’t be too much longer, and he can at least wrap himself up in the blanket before he gives everyone a show.

When he’s finally bare, the only things still on his skin being streaky patches of dirt and drying patches of swamp water, Steve braces an arm against one of the struts of the blister port, trying to get a glimpse of where they’re flying.  Thin clouds scud across the sky, looking lace-like where the full moon shines through. It seems like a quiet night, no patrol planes passing by or gunshots coming from the beach below. 

Then, and only then, does Steve finally feel like they’re in the clear, and he lets his eyes fall closed, exhaling roughly as his head droops forward.  Given the chance, he could probably fall asleep right here, standing up and bare ass naked.

The sharp click of a camera shutter and the pop of a flashbulb, however, pulls him back to consciousness with an unpleasant jerk.  Steve twists around to see Howard standing there, camera held in front of his chest and a shit-eating grin on his face. 

“Jesus!” he blurts out, trying to hide himself behind the gun perch and utterly failing to cover up anything.  “Are you nuts?”

“That’s a given,” Howard replies, grin still firmly on his face.  “You know, you could give the David a run for his money cutting a figure like that.”

“You’re going to destroy that film,” Steve says, pointing directly at Howard’s face.

“I don’t know if the Accademia does photography, but this would fit right in with those statues,” Howard continues, entirely ignoring Steve as he waves the camera in the air.  “Hey, you ever been to Florence? Once this war’s over, we should go - you’d love the art there.”

“Dammit, Howard!”  A shadow moves behind Howard, revealing itself to be Peggy when she steps into the dim light, at which point Steve is about ready to jump out of the plane and back into the bog to escape.  “Shit.”

Peggy’s grimacing, and a few seconds later Howard jumps in place, turning around to give her a glare.  “Leave him alone and go see what’s keeping Barnes and that water,” she commands. 

Howard grumbles a bit, but he shuffles off deeper into the plane, waggling his eyebrows at Steve as he walks past.  Then it’s just he and Peggy in the stifling warmth of the plane, and he’s trying to shrink back behind the mounted gun once more.  But it’s hard to escape Peggy’s gimlet stare as she rakes her eyes slowly over his body.

It’s not like Peggy hasn’t seen him in the altogether before, but that was in far more…intimate and private settings.

Luckily, the fact that they’re in such a public place and that Steve’s certain he can smell the bog water seeping out of his pores goes far to keeping any romantic urges tamped down.  Still, Peggy crosses her arms over her chest and saunters closer, red painted lips pursed as she studies him intently. When she’s close enough to touch, she says in a low voice that’s certain not to carry over the steady thrum of the engines, “Debriefing, 0200, at mine?”

Steve swallows roughly and nods, trying to think of something, anything to keep his body calm.  Of course he’ll be there, as long as they’re not still tied up with a mission review.

Peggy barely smiles in response, but the slight uptick at the corners of her mouth is enough.  They’ve gotten good at subtle lately, though Steve will fully admit that Peggy’s far better at being subtle than he ever could be.

Any tension in the air is quickly broken when something heavy and soft thwacks straight into Steve’s back.  He looks over his shoulder to find Bucky standing there, the canteen hanging from his hand and his eyes rolling hard enough that they’re practically in the back of his head.  “Cover it up, Steve. No one wants to see your pasty Irish ass.”

**********

Time passes, from months to years to decades, and the infamous picture is consigned to the memories of the few who were there.  A fond little snapshot of an event that’s gone fuzzy and soft with age. But, sometime in the mid-nineties, the picture pops up in the last place Peggy’s expected.  

After Howard died, Tony went through his belongings and gifted some of his WWII memorabilia to the Smithsonian.  Not all of it, as it seemed, but a few trunks that had items of no personal relevance within them. Tucked away in a manila folder at the bottom of one of these trunks was a copy of the photograph of legend.  

The picture ends up in an exhibit of battlefield photography from the war, and is entitled, ‘The Naked Soldier,’ taken by ‘Anonymous’ by a curator who obviously couldn’t find the slightest bit of information in Howard’s belongings or associates in regards to it.

Of course, Peggy and Dugan take a trip to see photograph in all its glory.

“Well, at least you can’t see his face,” Dugan says, his now fully white mustache bristling with a repressed grin.  “The moon’s shining bright in that sky, though.”

It’s entirely true, Peggy notes.  Between the deep shadows and the position of his arm, Steve’s face is hidden from the camera.  But the lines of his back are sharp and strong, musculature highlighted by the dull glow of the plane’s lights and the quick camera flash.  Howard’s camera was impressive enough that even some of the drying bog water was still visible on Steve’s skin, streaky lines that ran along his ribs like an odd tattoo.   _ A side of Captain America they’ve never seen _ , she thinks with a wild, internal giggle that’s far too girlish for her advanced age.  

“Think we should tell them the actual story behind the picture?” she murmurs, leaning close to Dugan so that no one else can overhear them.

Dugan snorts, shaking his head.  “They wouldn’t even believe us if we did.”


End file.
